the bells of the condom

15 snorts before   noon
and no handle
anywhere;
death is a pig of purple farts;
Kerimsky struck out, Baldoliau struck
out, Kasookie murdered his
mother in
hot candle wax;
I know a guy once hit 50 home runs
and never listened to
Mozart;
my car out there:
all 4 tires flat
and a 49 year old   blonde with runners
in her pantyhose
vomiting on the back seat;

there’s no way to go but down
there’s no way to go but up while
listening to Vaughn Williams in a
day crawling with spiders   in
parliament;

there’s a way to weep
a way to die
and a   way to live–
I had the map in the glove compartment
but somebody’s 4 year old child
took it out
covered it with crayon, mostly
blue and purple and red, tore it
up;

the phone rings and a woman asks me:
“St. George Hotel?”

“no,” I answer, “this is little Peter Redhut
with fine-nozzle snot-shooting showers with
guaranteed dreams of Valencia under
gonorrhea clouds.”

“is Robert there?” she asks.

you might as well eat a sackful of dislocated shit
as attempt to finger the bunghole of the
flamingo.

when the   bellboy comes up with the Racing Form
he’ll tell you how to differentiate the dead from the
living:
one brings flowers
the other ignores them;
one speaks of love
the other doesn’t need it;
one shits
the other becomes;

a dirty language comes from a
dirty life, and
commas, semi-colons, questions marks, per-
iods
abound.   the phone
rings:   “is Robert there?”
she asks.